an abundance of language

“Really? You weren’t born here? You speak English so well!”

I wondered, is this a compliment? Perhaps it was a compliment. After all, isn’t it always
a compliment when someone tells you you’re good at something? Well, gauging from
the feelings it aroused in my chest when given this “compliment,” it probably was never
going to feel like one to me. Because really, once a person has lived in a country since
the age of seven and you are now speaking with them at 25, it is not surprising that they
“have no accent at all.”

The truth is, I do speak English well. The reason that may surprise some is because I
was one of many born to immigrant parents. My mother and father decided to take a
chance and move their family to the States. As cliché as it may sound, they hoped for
opportunities, for themselves and for their kids. Perhaps they didn’t realize then that it
would mean that they, college-educated adults, would be forced to regress back to when
they had no language, no voice. I became their voice in most practical matters.

During my elementary school years, I was completely bilingual. English was the
language of the outside world—at school, with friends, strangers. Korean was what
worked at home. But slowly, English fought its way into our house. My sisters and I
spoke it with each other—it had already become the language of our thoughts. Then
as more time passed, my knowledge of Korean failed to serve the purposes for which I
needed it. So we started speaking Konglish—an interesting mix of Korean and English
to my parents. Thus, while I was able to fully express myself, my parents were only able
to understand about half of it. Americans complain about the culture and generation gaps
between parent and child. Try it with half a language.

“How will you speak to me when you’re older? You’ll forget all the Korean you know if
you don’t use it! What if you can’t communicate with your own mother?”

She would ask me this question—perhaps it was more of a plea, than a question. Of
course as a seventh grader, it seemed rather heavenly to not have to speak with my
mother. After all she ever did was nag. I mean, why couldn’t she just learn English for
goodness sake? We are living in America, aren’t we?

“Can you see what this says? Is it important?”

My dad asks me as he hands me a stack of letters. I want to scream, “I’m only 13! How in
the world am I supposed to know what letters from the IRS mean?” But I didn’t scream.
I read. I looked things up. I explained as best as I could, hoping quietly that something I
missed didn’t end up causing an unexpected disaster.

Phone conversations with the outside world would go something like this:

“Is your mother home?”

“Well yes, but it would be great if you could just tell me about whatever you need.”

“I’m afraid I need to speak with the accountholder.”

“She doesn’t speak English, so I guess you have to talk to me.”

One might think that having to speak a language that was once unfamiliar, to have to
speak on behalf of your parents, or to try to hold on to another language that keeps trying
to slip away might detract from a love of one or both languages. That was far from the
truth. Somehow, somewhere along the struggle of self-definition, I took ownership of
my speaking. I love that I have an abundance of language. The combination of having
known what it’s like to not be able to make myself understood and knowing that I speak,
not just for myself, but also for my parents, gives me a deep appreciation for the gift I’ve
struggled to keep.

Recently, I visited Korea for the first time in twenty-two years. I was excited, more for
the fact that I would travel to a new place than any sense of going back “home.” After
more than twenty years, over two thirds of my life had been spent in the States. I was
American, right?

I was surprised to find that I actually fit there. Words just came and I could speak, as if
I hadn’t left. Strangely, there was a sense of home, of connection. One of my cousins, in
the midst of conversation, stopped and said, “Wow. You speak like you’re Korean.” Now
that, for some reason, felt like a compliment.

the writing life

I stopped on the treadmill, desperately pressing the big, red, judgmental STOP button. The
display mockingly flashed the numbers 0.36. Miles, that is. That was sad. It looked easy…it
did. Life is a race that you never signed up for. You can stop and watch on the outskirts of the
road marked off for great human victories, or you find your own reason to run. So I signed up
for a ten-miler. Then, I ran. Running hurts more than people will admit. The thing is, when you
stop, it hurts more. Writing is a race, too--against your thoughts that threaten with their fleeting
slipperiness to run past you. Writing hurts more than people will admit. But you know what?
Stopping hurts more. At the end of my ten-miler, they gave me a memorial coin. From my
writing life, the living pages are my trophies.